“As God is my witness, Saskia”—my voice was fragile, quavering, and I hated it—“I haven’t changed. I’m the same person I always was. Why can’t people see that? I’m still Anneke Sheldrake who used to be welcomed with smiles and encouraging words. I’m still the Anneke Sheldrake they paid their respects to after Father died. All that’s changed is I serve ale to people . . . nothing else.” I buried my face in my hands and wept.
“Hush, hush, my lamb, mijn zoete.” Saskia bent down and took my face in her calloused hands, her smile so sweet, so gentle. “Listen to me.” She forced my chin up so I had to look upon her. There was a hard glint in the amber depths of her eyes. “Anneke. You’re not the same person. You’ve changed and praise be to God that you have.”
I sniffed loudly. “But—”
“How can you be the same after all you’ve endured?” Pushing strands of hair off my cheeks, she continued. “You’re stronger. More determined.” She took one of my hands in her own. “You’ve a family to raise, bills to pay, a household and business to run. You refuse to be influenced by what others say, think, or do. Those people out there”—she waved her hand toward the street—“they don’t like that they can’t control you anymore—the shrews with their gossip and rumors, the men because you’re proving a woman can be without a husband and survive. That she can run a business.” She laughed. “You’re not a servant, you’re not a wife, you’re not a mother. You’re queen of your own realm, your own woman, and they don’t know what to make of you anymore.”
I choked back a sob. “What if I don’t want to be my own woman?” I wiped my nose on the end of my apron and stared at her.
“Whose would you want to be?” she asked softly.
I opened my mouth . . .
“Excuse me, Mistress Sheldrake.”
Saskia released my hand with one last tightening of her fingers and rose slowly, her joints creaking. I quickly brushed the tears away and straightened my scarf.
“Aye, Westel?”
“I put the tin on your desk. I also took the liberty of leaving a goblet of wine there for you.” He hesitated. “You look like you need it.”
I lifted my hand to prevent Saskia rebuking him for his familiarity. “Thank you, Westel.” He bowed and left.
Rising, I turned and gave Saskia a hug. “Thank you too.”
Returning my embrace, she held me at arm’s length and beamed. “You’re always welcome, Mistress Anneke. Always. You know, if God had ever seen fit to bless me with a daughter, I’d have wanted her to be just like you.”
I almost bumped into a table, so thick were the tears that welled in my eyes.
“But,” she continued, drawing close to me and lowering her voice, “if I may give you one piece of advice”—she didn’t pause long enough for me to answer—“be careful with that lad, Mistress Anneke, with Westel. You indulge him. He thinks because he works beside you, he can hover all over the house and say what he likes. He’s getting a bit too big for his boots. As far as I’m concerned, he’s still on trial and if you won’t watch him, I will.”
I sighed. First Will and now Saskia. “You do that, Saskia,” I said and kissed her soundly on the cheek. “It’s a great solace knowing you’re looking out for me.”
Twenty-Seven
Holcroft House
Lent
The year of Our Lord 1406 in the seventh year of the reign of Henry IV
We opened our doors as the bells for sext chimed. People poured out of St. Bartholomew’s into the cold, and while many headed home, more than I expected entered the Cathaline Alehouse. In no time at all, the fireside was crowded. Orders were placed quickly and drinks were downed with enthusiasm. Delyth, Awel, and Westel wandered around the tables, squeezing past strangers and locals alike as they deposited brimming tankards, foaming mazers, and set down jugs and vessels. Will and Adam tended the barrels, while I supervised between the kitchen and alehouse, making sure the limited food we were allowed by law to serve was readily available. Perhaps because it was Lent and yesterday had been an Ember Day, where fasting and penance was observed, people were tired of all the restrictions and looking to ease their long period of denial. There were more unfamiliar faces than usual and while I wasn’t initially alarmed, as the afternoon wore on and the place grew rowdy, a sense of unease overtook me.
A granite sky made the shadows appear early and, when it began to drizzle, a few men took the chance to leave. But as they did more came to take their place. The smell of damp wool, horseflesh, sweat, and the sweet odor of ale and fire smoke lingered. In one corner, an old man I’d never seen before but who’d asked to bring his three-legged dog inside, pulled out a set of pipes and began to play a mournful tune. When his dog started to howl, some men sitting nearby complained. Amused by the dog’s antics and the men’s protests at first, when one of the men, tall, wearing a liripipe—a long, pointed hood that fell down his back—staggered to his feet and took a swipe at the dog, I called Adam.
Bearing the great wooden staff we kept hidden, Adam made his way through the crowd. Simon Attenoke stood ready to lend assistance. Before Adam could call for peace, another man, even bigger than the first, with thick, short hair and the build of a knight, grabbed the first man and, lest he attempt another strike at the dog, threw him backward. The man wearing the liripipe fell against a table, knocking it over and spilling drinks. After that, mayhem ensued.
There were grunts and shouts. Fists flew, bodies doubled over. Tankards smashed, ale spilled, and the dog barked. Backed up against a wall, shouting at Awel and Delyth to flee, I was trying to stay out of the way when someone grabbed me from behind, their hands kneading my breasts, pulling at my skirts. Shock stilled me before rage took over and, as the hands fumbled over my body, I grabbed hold of one of them and sank my teeth into it. There was a scream of pain and, as I spat blood on the floor, I was released. Swinging around to identify the rogue, I was again grabbed and lifted off my feet. Kicking, I tried to pry the fingers from my waist.
“It’s me, Mistress Sheldrake.” Westel. “You need to get out of here.”
I ceased struggling at once.
Westel carried me from the room, using his back and shoulders to thrust people out of the way. Putting me down in the corridor just outside, he pushed the tin into my hands. I clutched it gratefully. Will brought Awel over, Delyth following, tears streaming down her face.
“Stay here,” ordered Will, and he was about to return, the light of battle in his eyes, when I grabbed ahold of him. “Nay, Will. Run, fetch the sheriff. Tell him to bring his men. Hurry.”
Will glanced at Westel.
“Don’t worry. I’ll look after them,” he said.
Will opened his mouth, shut it again, then nodded. Pushing past us, he grabbed his coat and raced down the corridor, leaving through the kitchen. Standing beside Westel, I placed myself between the girls and doorway, using my boots and arms to push anyone who came too close away again. Westel delivered a few hard punches, breaking the skin of his knuckles, wincing in pain. I couldn’t help but be grateful for his presence, his determination to protect us.